


Note by Note

by NephilimEQ



Category: Hunger Games Series - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Complete, Drunken Kissing, F/M, First Kiss, First Time, Haymitch Plays Piano, Piano, Resolved Sexual Tension, resolved angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-14
Updated: 2020-07-14
Packaged: 2021-03-04 22:20:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,977
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25263736
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NephilimEQ/pseuds/NephilimEQ
Summary: Haymitch is drunk. Katniss is trying to keep him from drowning himself in misery. ...And then she finds out something about him that she never knew, and it brings them closer together than ever before.
Relationships: Haymitch Abernathy/Katniss Everdeen
Comments: 6
Kudos: 54





	Note by Note

**Author's Note:**

> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=n4JD-3-UAzM This is the first piece that Haymitch plays…pay attention to what the guy looks like. ;)  
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=w7djN9T9Oqk Start at 8:25 for the song, The Hanging Tree.

** **

** Note by Note **

Haymitch is drunk again, so I am staying with him. He needs someone to keep an eye on him when he gets this bad. From where I sit in the kitchen I can hear him stumbling around like a blind man in the next room over. I let out a sigh and take another sip of the bottle that I’ve been nursing for the past hour or so.

At least he’s keeping the destruction to one room.

I wait a long while. Several long minutes pass, during which I hear a variety curses that I have not heard before and hear a few more things breaking…

…and then silence.

To be honest, the silence worries me the most. At least with the sound of all the stumbling I knew he was still alive. The silence makes me wonder if he has fallen down and, quite possibly, committed inadvertent suicide through the act of purposely abusing and destroying his liver.

Of course, I’ve been suspecting for some time that that is his overall goal.

But I hope not.

I would miss having him around.

So now I find myself standing up and walking to the doorway, kicking an empty glass bottle out of my way, briefly wondering how long it’s been since he’s had anyone clean his place, but put it to the back of my mind as I step into the living room…and find him in an unlikely place.

He is sitting at the piano bench at the piano in the back corner of the room. His drink is on the floor, forgotten, and I am not sure if he has even noticed that I am in the room.

“Haymitch…?”

He doesn’t look up at me, and instead presses a finger to one of the white keys, a solitary clear note sounding too loud in the silent room, and I am dimly aware of the fact that the keys are not covered in dust, which they should be. I step a bit closer, wondering if he’s heard me, my hand out, ready to touch his shoulder to bring him back to reality, but he suddenly replies, “I play…did…di’you know that?”

His voice is slurred because of the alcohol, and I can tell that he’s had more than he usually does because of it. Whenever he was drunk around me and Peeta, the one thing that he never did was slur his words.

I shake my head and move a bit closer and say, “No. I didn’t know.”

He tries to nod, but it comes across as a roll of his head on his shoulders instead of an actual nod, and he plunks out the same note a second time.

He then swings his head up to me, his Seam-gray eyes lazily locking onto mine, clouded over from the alcohol, and says, his voice thickly laced with bitterness, “It was my _talent_ as a _Victor…_ I was considered a prodigy…”

He plays a few simple notes, stringing them together nicely, and then, taking me by surprise, he surges into to a strong piece that I have never heard before, and I can’t help but be overwhelmed by the sheer power of it. It’s stirring and seems to evoke strong memories, and my hand falls to his shoulder as I stare at his fingers flowing effortlessly over the keys.

I manage to hold in my sound of shock and simply listen.

The sound makes me think of something large, something expansive and powerful, unstoppable, like the wave that washed over me in the second arena, and then comes down to rush around my ankles.

The piece is long…

…and I just listen.

When he finishes, he looks back up at me and slurs out, “Surprised, sweetheart?”

I can’t lie to him.

“Yes, I am.” I sit down next to him and play a couple of meager notes, which seem to be next to nothing compared to what he has just played and nudge his shoulder with my own and say, “Scoot over a bit, you ol’ drunk.”

He nearly falls over at the small motion, but does as I ask and moves over a couple of inches, reaching down and grabbing his drink from the floor. I roll my eyes and randomly play a small melody that I remember, but as I do he puts down the bottle on top of the piano and gives me a look, his eyes less blurred and more focused than I’ve seen them all night.

“Now why would you play _that_ , sweetheart?”

I am confused and stop playing, my hands dropping to my lap.

“Play what?”

He looks at me and snorts.

“You’re playing the Hanging Tree,” he says, not reaching for the bottle, and I am surprised that he hasn’t grabbed at it to take another drink. He reaches an arm in front of me and finishes the tune, playing the full harmony effortlessly with both hands, showing off his skill yet again, and then says, “Talk about a sobering song.”

He looks back at me and gives me another serious look and then asks, “How’d you learn it?”

I am quiet for a long moment.

And then I say…

“My father. When…when he was teaching me how to shoot outside of the fence, in the woods.”

He continues to stare at me and as I chance a look back up at him, I can practically see the alcohol leaving him, as though the sound of the song has literally turned him sober in a matter of minutes. Even though I don’t believe that it actually could, it is hard to deny its’ effects when I see them so readily before me.

“Do you know all the words, sweetheart?”

I nod.

“Yes.”

He reaches up and hands me the bottle that he’s been drinking since I came into his house and begins to play the song again and arches an eyebrow at me, obviously inviting me to accompany him. After a few bars of his playing, I slowly join in, my voice is shaky at first but becomes stronger as I watch and listen to him play.

“…Are you, are you coming to the tree? Where they strung up a man they say murdered three…Strange things did happen here, no stranger would it be if we met up at midnight in the hanging tree…”

He plays a bit further and I start the second verse…

“Are you, are you coming to the tree? Where the dead man called out for his love to flee…Strange things did happen here, no stranger would it be if we met up at midnight in the hanging tree…” On the third verse, however, my voice cracks on the phrase, “Where I told you to run, so we’d both be free,” and I find myself unable to continue.

However, I am surprised when he picks up the words on the fourth and final verse, “Are you, are you coming to the tree? Wear a necklace of rope, side by side with me. Strange things did happen here, no stranger would it be, if we met up at midnight in the hanging tree…”

He has a pleasant voice…more than pleasant, actually, and I wish that I had the chance to hear him sing a bit longer.

The air is filled with an uncomfortable tension, and I lean back slightly, unsure of whether or not I should move.

I stay.

Finally, I manage to say, “You have a nice voice…”

He absently nods.

“So do you.”

“Not really, but thanks,” I mutter back, and the silence stretches.

We sit there for a long time; I don’t know how long we sit there, but the next thing I know, there is a faint light shining across the piano keys. At first, I think it’s sunlight, but my body tells me that it’s the middle of the night, so it can’t be…and that’s when I realize that it’s moonlight.

Moonlight on a piano.

There’s something about that phrase that reminds me of the old poetry books that we used to read in school, and I feel my chest tighten.

Haymitch suddenly moves at that moment and then begins to play something that sounds like the moment that we’re in, poignant and sharp that only seems to emphasize the feeling in my chest.

I look at him and I am about to ask him what it is, but he cuts me off with a scathing glance before I even can get one word out, so I merely grab the drink from on top of the piano and take a swig from the bottle that he’s been drinking. After taking a drink, I lick my lips, tasting something else on them that isn’t the liquor, but is slightly more bitter and sweet at the same time, and I realize, in that moment, that I am tasting Haymitch, his taste left on the rim of the bottle.

He plays a bit more and then slowly finishes, while I decide whether or not I like the flavor he left behind. After a moment, I decide I do.

A pause.

“Fitting,” I finally say, unable to think of anything else to say to him.

Again, we fall into silence. 

But this time, it’s comfortable.

As I sit next to him, his drink in my hand, I find that I am expecting him to reach over and take the bottle from me; just swipe it from my fingers and drink down every last drop before succumbing to unconsciousness and sleeping it off on the couch, but he doesn’t go for it.

Instead, his eyes seemed to be trained on the side of my face. I don’t turn my head, but I can feel him staring at me. It should feel strange, wrong, and altogether too personal, but instead I find it comfortable, just like the silence that stretches between us, and I suddenly find myself hoping that he will do something. That he will find a way to bridge the gap that gapes between us like an impossible expanse of open air between two distant cliffs.

I feel him move and find myself holding my breath as he turns his body towards mine…and then he gently pries the bottle from my fingers and the butterflies in my chest turn to lead, plummeting.

He just wants a drink, of course.

I start to turn away, but then I feel firm fingers grip my shoulder and he pulls me back around to face him, and that is when I see that he has put the bottle on the floor once more. He looks at me and I can’t breathe. He is staring at me with a look that I cannot put my finger on.

“Where do you think you’re going, sweetheart?” he whispers hoarsely, and suddenly the butterflies return, their wings twice as rapid as I see him leaning in.

I concentrate on his eyes for as long as I can, until everything blurs as he presses his lips to mine.

\--

A surge of heat suddenly sparks low in my abdomen as he kisses me and, for the first time since before the Games ever started, I feel _alive_.

He pauses, slowly pulling back from the kiss, but I do not let him have the moment of doubt that I know is appearing in his mind and reach up and slide my fingers through his hair and pull him back to me, forcing our lips to meet for a second time. The stubble on his jaw rubs against my cheek and I don’t care; I am relieved as he responds to my kiss, one of his hands coming to my waist, the other one mimicking my own movements and tangling in my hair.

Never before have I been kissed like this.

Peeta and I have shared kisses, but they were sweet and without true feeling behind them…at least, not for me; and Gale had been a passionate interlude that I had never really fully grasped or understood, overly enthusiastic and almost overbearing at times in his way with me, but Haymitch…god, Haymitch.

For once I feel as though someone is meeting me on my level.

I can almost taste the understanding in his kiss, in the way his lips run over mine, in the way he seductively, and yet gently, runs his tongue along my lower lip, asking for permission to enter…and I give it.

And I am in my own personal heaven.

He tastes of Ripper’s white liquor, almost overwhelmingly so, but underneath it all I can still taste him, the taste that I had discovered when I had first taken a drink from his bottle, and I find that I crave more of it, that I simply can’t get enough of it, and so I attempt to slide myself closer to him on the bench.

Haymitch seems to know what I’m trying to do, and somehow, in a sudden and unexpected move, he manages to pull me to him and then stands, my legs instinctively going around his waist as he walks the two of us over to the couch. He collapses back on it and I groan as feel him hard underneath me, another wave of heat running through my blood. I don’t know where this is going, but I know that there is only one outcome that I want.

And that is him in my bed.

Or his bed, I think to myself as his hands skim up under my shirt, helping me pull it over my head.

As I help him with his own shirt, I realize that at this point it doesn’t really matter whose bed we’re in, so long as we have a mattress underneath us and covers over us. As well as the other person next to us, skin to skin. He stands up once more, my legs going back around his waist, and the next thing I know he is using his surprising strength to walk the two of us up the dim staircase, his lips exploring my neck the whole time, turning me into a pile of nerves, until we eventually hit his bedroom.

Suddenly, I am on my back on his bed and he is above me, one hand already at the edge of my pants, his fingers almost clumsy in their over-enthusiastic attempt to try and get them off of me, and I smile. I raise my hips and hear him let out a sigh of relief as he slides them effortlessly down my legs, letting them pile in a heap on the floor at the base of the bed. He stands up for a brief moment and removes his own pants, and in that moment, I am able to see all of him.

I nearly swallow my tongue as I try to take everything in.

He is gorgeous.

Mind you, he is scarred and broken, just like me, and in that I find him gorgeous. He has not let his body go to pasture and is still lean and fit, his broad shoulders emphasizing the slim narrowness of his hips, and in the moonlight that peeks through the dusty curtains I can see one particular scar on his abdomen that is deep and from the way he moves to almost hide it, I know that he is aware of it and does not want me to look at it.

I sit up and put my hands on either side of his torso and give him a faint smile and say, “Hey. I’m scarred, too. Don’t be ashamed of it…it’s proof that you’re alive, after all…”

He looks at me, the fingers of his right hand tangling in my hair, a painful smile appearing on his lips.

“Katniss…are you sure?”

I smirk and place a kiss low on his abdomen, trailing my fingers down between his legs and he lets out a low groan of approval.

“Oh, yeah,” I mutter against his skin. “I’m sure…”

In a sudden movement that leaves my mind reeling, he pulls me up and pins me back on the bed, and is now on all fours above me, his hands around my wrists, pressing them into the mattress beneath me, his knees on either side of my legs.

“Good,” he says, and then proceeds to do something with his tongue that I didn’t know was even possible, and now I am the one to groan.

He is taking me over and instead of being annoyed by it, I am gladly letting it happen. This is Haymitch, after all, and I know that he would never hurt me. I know that he would never do anything to me.

Except for what he is doing right now. And it is very nice.

All too quickly, we are both completely undressed and tangled up under the covers, both of us eagerly exploring the other, unable to get enough of the sensation. Neither of us has been with anyone in a long time, and to be so close after nearly a year of simple, platonic drunken companionship, is intoxicating.

When at last he finally slides home, I hoarsely murmur out his name.

“Haymitch…”

From where he hovers over me, I feel and hear his breath catch as I speak, and then hear him let out a shuddering sigh.

“Katniss…”

He looks down at me. Our eyes meet and I know that I am lost to this man forever.

A rhythm slowly builds up between us and I close my eyes, lost in the sensation that this man is creating in me. The rhythm turns into an ever rising crescendo, just like the notes he played on the piano and I can feel my body coiling like a spring beneath him, ready to explode at any second.

I feel his breath against my neck and then his tongue and I let out a low groan as I feel my body go taut with unreleased tension, and then he reaches down a hand and brushes his thumb against the perfect spot…

And I feel myself shatter into a million pieces, cresting over a wave of pleasure so intense I feel tears come to the corner of my eyes.

“Haymitch, Haymitch, Haymitch,” is all I can say, over and over again, and he wraps his hands under my shoulders, letting me surround him completely, my hands going immediately to his back, nails digging into his shoulders, my thighs clenched firmly around his waist as he surges into me again and again, following the rhythm of my voice and I find myself being overwhelmed a second time.

My head cants back as I let out a soundless scream, unable to draw any breath, and I can see stars behind my eyelids at the intensity of the pleasure that I am feeling.

Our movements are fervent for a long while until we both seem to slow at the same time, and I hear myself let out a whimper as he finally withdraws from me, leaving a faint trail of wetness on my thigh.

His breath brushes across my ear as he says in a hoarse voice, “You okay, sweetheart?”

I nod, but then realize that he can’t see me as he still has his face pressed into the crook of my neck, so I whisper back, “Yeah…perfect, actually.” As I say that, I can feel his mouth stretch into a grin against my skin and I smile as well.

My hands, which are still on his shoulders, can feel the tension in his muscles. They are twitching like mad beneath my fingertips; most likely from the strain of holding himself up.

Finally, after a long moment I say, “You can move, now, Haymitch,” and he lets out a chuckle and replies, “Yeah, I know, sweetheart…I just like having you under me for once in my life…”

I let out a small laugh of my own and then slowly disengage my legs from his hips, placing my feet on the bed and then say, “Trust me, after this, I’m _certain_ it’s going to be happening more than once.”

He lets out another laugh but does as I ask and moves so that he is lying on his left side, facing me, not even bothering with the sheet, leaving him wonderfully bare before my eyes. I let my legs drop to the mattress and turn my gaze towards him, and I have to catch my breath, as he is staring at me in a way that I have never seen before. Seam gray…just like mine. I reach out my hand and gently trace the tips of my fingers over his arm, which is laying in front of him and I feel a smile creep onto the corner of my lips.

He gives me a look.

And then he says…

“No regrets?”

I roll my eyes at him and gently slap him on the arm, saying, “Seriously? After _that?_ Hell, no.”

He grins and reciprocates my action, absently tracing his fingers over my hip, pausing every now and again to trace a scar or burn mark and I start to do the same to him, running my fingers over his scars, eventually moving him to his back to I can look more closely at the one on his side.

When I look up at him for a brief moment, I see his gaze go slightly dark as I memorize the feel of it with my fingertips and I quickly draw my eyes away from his, looking down at his side and at what my hands are doing. The scar is longer than my hand and the tissue, though healed, is rough and corded, almost as though the Capitol didn’t give him anything for it but let him take care of it all on his own.

His hands suddenly join mine, and I stare at them, amazed that such lovely hands could be attached to such a coarse man.

I place my free hand over them and run my fingers along his, tracing them, admiring them for what they had been able to do to me in such a short amount of time.

And then, unbidden, the song comes into my mind.

I start to hum the tune under my breath and look back up at Haymitch…and he smiles and starts to hum the tune as well, finishing the song, and then, in a bold move, he pushes me to my back, straddling my waist and giving me a look that I feel goes straight through me.

“Katniss Everdeen,” he whispers, and I look at him expectantly.

The silence goes a bit longer than I am expecting, so I say, “Haymitch Abernathy…”

He stares at me for a moment longer and then leans down and whispers seductively in my ear…

“Would you like to learn how to play the piano?”

I look up at him…and I laugh. Not just a chuckle or a giggle, but a full out belly-laugh that is so full it hurts my sides with the effort of it. It’s the first real laugh that I’ve had in who knows how long, but it feels wonderful, and I playfully slap at his shoulder and reply, “Only if _you_ teach me, Haymitch.”

He leans down and just before he presses another kiss to my lips he says, “I wouldn’t have it any other way,” and that’s when I know.

I am going to spend the rest of my life with this man.

Either next to him on his piano bench or in his bed, he is going to be all mine, and I plan on learning everything about him that I can in the only way that I can.

Note by note.


End file.
